


Hold On

by thewoodwork



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewoodwork/pseuds/thewoodwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Repairing what had been broken between them after the accident takes some time, but they'll get there eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold On

A sharp pain shot up the nerves in Simmons arms and he jerked. The tool in his hands fumbled out of his hands and landed with a clatter on the ground, the sound echoing through the room like chime bells.

“ _Shit.”_ Simmons hissed, his hand shot up to grip at where the metal and skin met on his shoulder, pain still radiating through his body. His cybernetic arm twitched, the fingers moving against his will. They curled tight against the metal palm, a grating sound of metal against metal echoing through the otherwise silent room.

He rubbed against the irritated skin. His body had not been reacting to the new enhancements as seamlessly as Sarge had hoped. His new body was littered with problems ranging from leaking oil to muscle spasms. Sometimes the pain was blinding, but lately the pain had become a dull ache that he was slowly getting used to. Every once and a while though, when he was tinkering, something painful would shoot through his body. He hadn’t figured out how to fix that problem yet.

Hand curling into a fist again, Simmons stared down at his stiff metal arm, watching as wires protruded where his forearm used to be. He tried, repeatedly over the past few weeks, but it was impossible to ignore the changes. If it wasn’t one of his teammates teasing him about it, it was technical issues or pain, or a number of other issues to remind him of how much of a freak he was now.

On top of that, Grif now held the body parts that were now missing from Simmons own. It wasn’t often, but every once and a while he would catch the other man out of armor and have the reminder slap him in the face.

Maybe, _maybe,_ if Grif’s skin had been a closer match to his own he would have been able to forget about it. Pretend it never happened. No such luck, Simmons’ own pale skin stood out in heavy contrast against Grif’s darker tone. The jagged and scarred seams between where his skin ended and the others began were glaringly obvious. He couldn’t help but stare whenever he had the chance. He couldn’t look away most of the time.

He would stare in the mornings, when the sun was filtering through the entrance to the base and they were eating breakfast. Grif would be shoveling down as much food as he could get away with as Simmons sipped on his coffee, the room silent asides from the scrape of a spoon against porcelain. Grif would be in his sleepwear, leaving bare skin just open for observation in the early hours of the day.

He would stare on the rare occasions that their shower times matched up and they were walking shoulder to shoulder down the hallway. The fabric of Grif’s shirt would ride up and he would catch a glance of exactly where one strip of skin met the other.

He would stare at night as they were stepping into their separate bunks and there wouldn’t be enough clothes to hide exactly what the two of them had become because of this war.

He would stare because not once did Simmons see him fumble the way he did with his own new arm. Never did he catch Grif staring down at his body in disgust or picking at the seams. Grif didn’t have to spend hours trying to fix his new body parts or hope that they didn’t cause him any pain that day.  

Simmons couldn’t help but stare down at his own body, the places where skin met metal were marred with scars and jagged edges. Sarge had insisted that there would be a ton of new things that he could do with his improved limb. Simmons was trying, but he hadn’t yet found anything about his new parts that he wouldn’t trade back in a second for his old body.

He sighed and moved to reach for the tool that he’d dropped, fumbling blindly for it as he clenched his teeth against the pain. He grasped the tool within his hands, triumphant, and moved it back towards the metal and wires. Sarge’s work was patchwork at best. Simmons knew he should be grateful that he’d been able to do anything at all to save Grif, but he couldn’t get past the shoddy cybernetic work that had been done to his body.

Throughout the entire time Simmons had been at red base, Sarge had been bragging over his mechanical skills. As a fresh new recruit, Simmons had believed it blindly. Who wouldn’t? The man knew how to build almost anything out of random scraps he would find around base. Never underestimate the Sarge’s ability to pull together absolute crap and make it into something useful.

_He could do it for everything but his own squad._ Simmons thought bitterly, teeth clenching.

The red team was a mess. No amount of denial and repression could hide the fact that their team was just…not a team at all. They were always at ends with each other, finding new ways to irritate each other and push each other’s buttons. A team was supposed to mesh perfectly, know each other’s flaws and help build their strengths. Instead this team was poison, breaking open every wound that Simmons had carefully repressed and making a few new ones along the way.

Simmons used to see Sarge as someone to look up to and admire, someone to aspire to be. It had only taken a year or two for that façade to crumble. Simmons _wished_ he could go back to blindly trusting his leader, but one too many failed missions were stacking up against him and he couldn’t help but want to ignore Sarge’s orders and plan his own attacks against the Blue team. They might manage have a marginal amount of success if he did.

Donut was…Donut. Simmons didn’t really have much to say about his pink armored teammate. Most of the time he was relieved that there was another person to distract Sarge so Simmons could go off and be alone without interruption. Before Donut had arrived Sarge would order spend most of his time ordering Grif and or Simmons to do as many menial and pointless tasks as he could. Menial tasks that Simmons ended up doing on his own with Grif watching from the sidelines.

Simmons fumbled with the tool again, sending it skidding across the floor.

Grif was… _infuriating_. He never did what he was supposed to, he _always_ got Simmons to do his share of the workload and never said thanks. Grif was always egging Simmons on to fight, always making fun of him and calling him names. He never got up when he was supposed to and was a miserable slob. Half the time when Simmon’s got a talking down from Sarge, it was for things that Grif had, or hadn’t done. Simmons just felt like screaming whenever his teammate was the reason that he was getting into trouble with his superiors. He felt like screaming every time he had to clean up the mess that Grif left behind or when Grif-

“What are you doing?”

Simmons head snapped up, ripping him out of his thoughts. Grif stood at the door, leaning against the doorframe. He had his helmet off, but was otherwise fully in armor.

“What do you care?” He said, anger still coursing through him.

“I don’t, _Dick._ ” Grif shrugged, everything about him aloof and uncaring. “Someone piss in your food again this morning?”

Simmons looked down at where his arm was open and spewing out wires and sighed. “I’m not in the mood, fuck off.”

“You’re always in the mood to fight,” Grif said. “It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, well…” Simmons’ fist clenched again and he watched the gears and joints work throughout his arm. “I’m busy right now.”

“Do you need help?”

Simmons’ head snapped up in surprise from where he’d been tinkering. “What?”

Grif was standing further in the room now, his shoulders hunched uncomfortably. “I’m not going to say it again, asswipe.”

“Fuck off, Grif.”

Grif threw his hands up in exasperation and turned to leave the room. “Whatever. Fuck me for giving a shit.” He spat, slamming the door behind him.

Simmons flinched at his words but felt his shoulders relax from where they’d tensed up. Caring wasn’t something that they _did_ for each other. Hate each other, yes. Fight, poke and prod, yes. Care for each other? No, absolutely not. That wasn’t allowed. That wasn’t ever an _option_ between them. It threw everything off about what Simmons could expect between the two of them.

\---

An hour or two later of tinkering and working, a spark shot up, causing Simmons to flinch his hand back and gasp in pain. The tool he was using once again flung half way across the room, clattering to a stop by the door.

Simmons stumbled to his feet, human hand gripping his shoulder again. He stumbled his way out of the room and towards where the medical and tool kits were kept. Ever since Simmons’ cybernetic enhancements, he’d kept a habit of keeping the two boxes close together. He’d been needing both on a more regular basis.

The base was immaculately clean today, most of it had managed to avoid Grif’s slobbery and remained the way that he’d left it this morning. If it wasn’t for him going through the base to clean up after his disgusting teammates every day, the place would be in shambles. All Sarge cared about was keeping his mechanical shop clean, Donut kept the kitchen clean, and Simmons was left to do the rest. Any attempt at getting the others to help was pointless.

Simmons walked into the common area with his cybernetic arm hanging limp and his human one rubbing at his shoulder. He made his way over to where he left the kits but fell short when he realized how high up he left them. They were sitting on the top shelf of one of their ‘everything’ bookcases.

Simmons grunted as he reached up with his human hand, cursing the person who placed them so high up. Without his cybernetic arm working, he wasn’t quite able to lift himself in the way he usually would to reach them.

_Fucking perfect._ Simmons flailed and couldn’t get a grip on the kit, watching as the box moved further out of his reach—suddenly arms were surrounding his center and lifting him up, giving him just enough leverage to grasp the boxes and drag them down. Simmons flushed all over, his body sinking back against the arms that were locked around him.

“You done yet?” Grif grunted from behind him.

Simmons squirmed and squawked in surprise, trying (and failing) to retain some sense of dignity. “Yes, now let me _down.”_

Simmons twisted and managed to dislodge Grif’s grip, spinning so that he could shove the other man backwards a few steps.

“Chill out,” Griff huffed. “You looked like you needed help.”

“I was doing _fine._ ” Simmons snapped, his face felt like it was on fire.

Grif lifted his hands so his palms were out in front of him. “Whatever, man. I’ll just let you struggle next time.”

“You do that.” Simmons spun on his heel and grabbed the boxes before rushing away.

All the nerves in his body tingling from where Grif had been touching him, his entire body live on a wire. “ _Fuck.”_ Simmons cursed, body tensing up from where it had subconsciously relaxed in Grif’s arms. He needed some alcohol.

\---

Unfortunately, the only place on red base to get alcohol was Grif, so getting drunk was out of the question.

So instead, Simmons spent the next few weeks adamantly avoiding Grif. Avoiding him was hard seeing as they both shared a room and most of their duties but Simmons managed well enough. Instead of jumping at the opportunity to go on patrol with Grif or do most of their duties together, Simmons started insisting that they split up to cover more ground. Sarge thought it was brilliant, though the glares Grif was sending his way told him that the other wasn’t as happy with their new arrangement.

“Alright, scumbags. Let’s stop the dawdling and get to work.” Sarge bellowed, “Grif! You n’ Simmons go out on patrol. Take the warthog. Report back on the double.”

Simmons opened his mouth to protest but before he could, Grif was shooting him a glare that had Simmons snapping his mouth shut.

“Let’s just go.” Grif said, moving towards where the warthog was parked.

Simmons pursed his lips and followed his teammate, careful to keep a respectful distance between them.

For most of the patrol they didn’t speak, a few weeks ago this would have been unusual for them. Simmons knew it was his fault, Grif had clearly picked up on the way Simmons had been avoiding him over the past few weeks and had just given up.

Grif drove with one hand on the wheel and the other buried in a bag of snacks for most of the trip. At this point, Simmons would usually be griping at Grif to keep both hands on the wheel and to just _stop eating for one bloody second you idiot._

Instead, an uncomfortable silence was resting between them that was getting thicker by the second.

“Fuck this,” Grif said, taking a sharp turn off course.

“What the fuck, Grif?” Simmons startled out of his reverie. “Where are we going?”

Grif didn’t respond, he took both hands to the wheel and started on a path that both wasn’t their usual route or the way home.

“Grif!”

“Quit whining,” Grif said, taking a sharp left again. “Just trust me for a second, will you? For once?”

Simmons mouth snapped shut with an audible click, guilt sweeping through his body. They drove for another ten minutes before Simmons recognized where they were going.

“We haven’t been up here in ages.” Simmons said, staring out at the changing landscape.

Grif grunted, taking another turn to start their ascent up the mountain. It wasn’t long before they rolled to a stop and Grif was getting out of the warthog to walk to what both of them denied to call ‘their spot’.

Simmons felt his insides twist uncomfortably as Grif settled into his spot on the edge of the cliff, leaving enough room for Simmons to settle next to him. Grif turned back, raising an expectant brow before patting the ground next to him. “Common Simmons, you know the drill.”

Simmons sighed and he forced himself to stop tensing his entire body. He settled down next to Grif as the other solider worked at unclasping his helmet. This was another tradition that they’d started up here. Talking had to be sans helmet, no exceptions.

When he didn’t immediately reach up to work at the clasps on his own helmet, Grif grunted in annoyance and moved towards them on his own. Two or three clicks later and Simmons’ helmet was being removed from his head and his eyes were assaulted by the bright light.

“Fuck, that’s bright.” Simmons groaned, rubbing his eyes to get the spots to disappear.

“You big baby,” Grif laughed, placing their helmets behind them.

“Yeah, yeah.” Simmons said, “Laugh it up.”

And he did, Grif grinned and burst into laughter and it stunned Simmons into silence, watching as Grif’s shoulders shook with the force. Simmons wasn’t usually one to get caught up in the way someone laughed, but when Grif did it… there was something just mesmerizing about it. His eyes crinkled and his entire body would move with the force of it. Not to mention the way his eyes lit up with glee.

Simmons scrambled to find purchase on the ground with his hands, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and unable to speak. He refused to call Grif’s laugh beautiful, it _wasn’t_. It couldn’t be.

Grif, still shaking slightly, shifted sideways so that their shoulders were brushing. Simmons would never admit it until much later, but he drifted sideways into the touch, desperate to maintain contact.

They didn’t speak for the next hour, not much beyond light whispers and laughs anyway. Simmons could feel something settle within him that he hadn’t realized was restless for the past few weeks. Just being in Grif’s presence…calmed something within him that had been causing his stomach to turn over in turmoil.       

Grif nudged his shoulder against where it was already resting on Simmons. “Hey…”

“Hmm?” Simmons hummed, eyes just short of being completely shut in relaxation.

“Scream.”

Simmons eyes shot open. “What?”

“I want you to scream out…whatever the fuck you’ve been feeling lately.” Grif explained, nodding his head towards the big open space in front of them. “I used to do it in Hawaii sometimes.”

“You used to just scream? I’m sure your neighbors loved that.”

“Laugh it up asshole,” Grif smirked. “It’s good for you. You can’t keep things pent up.”

“Since when are you the posterchild for expressing your emotions?”

Grif shook his head and turned back towards the open sky. He raised a hand at Simmons before letting out a yell that got lost out in the empty space.

Simmons jolted next to him in surprise, their shoulders dislodging. A laugh bubbled up that he couldn’t contain, he tried to hide it behind a cough but a knowing look from Grif showed his efforts to be futile.

“Go on.”

“Ha, not happening.” Simmons laughed, biting his lip.

“Oh common.” Grif groaned, “It’s good for you!”

“I’ll look like an idiot!”

“Simmons, you always look like an idiot.”

“That’s _not_ true.”

“You always look like an idiot, so if you don’t scream right now… _I’ll give you reason to._ ”

Simmons’ mouth gaped in surprise as Grif came forward to grasp Simmons’ jaw between his fingers and wrench his face around to face the open sky. “ _Simmons.”_

He gulped, the feeling of Grif’s hand on his face sending shivers through his body.

He let out a half-hearted yell and felt Grif’s hand fall away from his face.

“You…”

“What?”

“That was the most…” Grif was shaking from laughter. “That was the most pathetic yell I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up!” Simmons blushed, watching the way Grif’s eyes crinkled up from the widening smile on his face.

“I’ll let it go.” Grif said, “ _This time._ ”

“This time?” Simmons squawked. “There won’t _be_ a next time. I’m not doing that again.”

Grif shook his head, “Oh come on. You can’t say that you don’t feel at least a little better.”

Even though it was true, as Simmons was feeling the tension within him dissipate with every passing moment up on this cliff with Grif, he would never give his friend the satisfaction.

“Nope, nothing different.”

“ _Liar._ ”

Simmons shook his head, “You can’t prove a thing.”

Grif grinned, nudging his shoulder against Simmons’ again before wrapping it around Simmons to draw him closer.

For once, Simmons didn’t protest the action, and instead let something inside of him go and leaned further into the touch.

“You’re unbelievable.” Simmons mumbled against Grif’s side.

“You love it.” Grif said, squeezing Simmons’ human shoulder.

A silence settled between them that had Simmons resting even further into the embrace, and it was a silence that was perfect before Grif ruined it with a loud belch.

“Oh fucking,  _gross.”_ Simmons shoved Grif away from him, causing his friend to once again burst into laughter. “Way to ruin a moment, douchebag.”

“Eh,” Grif shrugged, “It’s what I do best.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments make my days a million times better so if you have the time to leave one I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> This is my first, and hopefully not last, work in the RvB fandom. I've pretty much read every single Grif/Simmons fic on this site and so I decided to write my own.
> 
> Might make a part 2 to this if I deem it necessary but I kind of like where I left it.


End file.
